Jog trot

I remember the stable, its smell, a repulsive mix of hay and horse dung, of sweat and slop. I remember the leather saddles; they filled the room, resting on their racks, and we called them tacks, and I didn't know what that meant. All I knew was that I was finally going to ride, to swing my legs over the back of the most beautiful beast that walked the earth. I would soon know what a jog felt like, and a canter, and maybe even a trot. I would post. I would hold the reins. I would feel his muscles beneath mine. I would ride.